Analysis
by A Soul of Shadows
Summary: John Watson finds a random emaciated girl shivering on the side of a building. After becoming interested in her story, he learns that she has no place to be, and brings her to 221 B. Sherlock, very much miffed by this, deduces that she is a prostitute, but is startled when she performs a deduction about him and the rain. The case he's on complicates things as well.


So, _my cousin and I are doing a collaborative! This is the result. Neither of us own Sherlock or the characters. No profit is being earned, so this is for entertainment purposes only. If you want to look at the rest of my cousin's things, written only by her (unless you find Albion somewhere. I helped her with that too, and the character Astraea Ciardha is mine.), just ask me and I'll send you the username for her wattpad account. She doesn't have an account on here, sorry._

_Preface_

The rain seemed endless, and the sky was a brilliant ink blue. The only lights about were the blurry ones of the city. Doctor John Watson was sat on the outer step of 221b Baker Street, his hair soaked and his clothes drenched. He looked back as he heard familiar footsteps behind him on the wet pavement. Sherlock Holmes tightened his scarf around his neck, and ran his fingers through his somehow dry, curly black hair. His eyes darkened with the sky and he let out a puff of hot breath.  
"John," He hissed, "What is that girl doing up in my flat?"  
"Sherlock," John turned calmly to fully face his friend, "That girl is Scarlett Cameron, and she is in a flat that you happen to share with me."  
"As my memory recalls it, I didn't have to ask you to share the flat with me. I could've payed the rent for the flat on my own," Sherlock retorted venomously.  
"Then why did you ask, seeing as how you're one of the most anti-social people ever to exist throughout history, which is proved by the fact that we're having this conversation at all. In fact, stop redirected this conversation elsewhere just so you can win the argument. Scarlett is staying here until she can work out something for herself."  
"She'll only get in the way John!" Sherlock complained, "There's no point in her staying!" John smiled pleasantly,  
"And yet, she will be gracing us with her company anyway. You can't make me change my mind, and if you trick me or her, I will be extremely pissed."  
"You think I care?" Sherlock snorted. John pretended to consider his question before replying cheekily,  
"Yeah." He then turned to the woman in question, who was merely observing the two bickering men from the open doorway with a gaze which was unreadable...at least to John, who apologized, "I'm really sorry. He's always like that. Don't worry, you'll get used to it...maybe." Scarlett shifted her gaze to Sherlock, but said nothing as he glared at her, doubtlessly deducing her entire life from her sleeves or something equally obscure. However, before he could rattle off his findings to discourage her, she spoke to him,  
"You avoid the rain. Why?"  
"What?"  
"Well, Dr. Watson over there," she gestured to him with her head, "is a drenched rat while you are almost perfectly dry. You might not have been out in the rain as long as he has, but you don't get out of this flat unless you want to, and you usually don't want to because people are rather tedious and noisy. You hear all that noise, and in a city as large as London, I'd imagine you would get migraines easily. So, you had a reason to be wherever you were. You could have taken a cab, but judging from the amount of moisture on the sleeve of your coat, you were outside for at least a long enough time to get your coat wet. Do you avoid the rain for the same reason you avoid the city? I'd think that the constant downpour would be just as tedious as the pointless noise that the human race feels the need to permeate the entire poisoned world with."  
Sherlock's head tilted to the side, "Did you just deduce me?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"Deduce. Like this: You're not as sickly as you appear, but you are a bit malnourished, which is part of the reason you came here. You work as a waitress, but you're more intelligent than you let on. However, you obviously don't mind John and I knowing about the presence of your IQ, or you would have remained completely silent instead of partaking in this conversation. So, you're too smart to be a waitress, meaning that it was your only option. But it wasn't enough. You have been completely disowned by your parents. They left you for dead on the streets of London. The meager salary of a waitress was not enough for you to survive on. The option you took to maintain survival was rather...distasteful. In reality, I should turn you over to the police for your occupation, which is another reason that I don't believe you should remain here. Harboring you would not be beneficial to me at all, for it would shatter the already cracked glass which is my agreement with Lestrade," he paused, "You're a prostitute."  
"Sherlock!" John shouted, "What the hell is wrong with you?" In quite a peculiar fashion, both Sherlock and Scarlett replied in unison,  
"Don't curse John, it's unbecoming of you and is merely proof of idiocy." Absolute silence followed as John blinked and shifted his gaze between the other two who were currently having a staring contest of icy fire. Eventually, as John realized that they may be having a silent conversation using telepathy and was slightly peeved, he commented,  
"Well that was peculiar. You two met literally five minutes ago and you're already speaking at the same time," he paused, then decided to dare to be a hypocrite, "Should I expect the two of you to fall madly in love with each other?" Then, in unison once more, they replied,  
"Don't be ridiculous!"  
"Seriously...stop doing that."  
"Well, we're not exactly trying to," they glared at each other.  
"Then stop talking, because it's honestly the creepiest thing I've seen. And I work with you," John points to Sherlock as if accusing him of murder. However, neither Sherlock or Scarlett responded, for they were trying to avoid the unnatural unison. So, they resumed staring at each other, "Okay," John sighed, "now everything is just awkward."  
"Well what do you expect?" They say at the same freaking time.  
"Oh. My. God. You two are so married." This time, Sherlock responded without Scarlett,  
"Oh stop being so dramatic John."  
"Finally! The spell has been broken!" John shouted. Then, as if fate had only been teasing John, they switched back to unison,  
"Spell? What are you going on about?" After this, the two were positively bristling with aggravation.  
"That's it! I'm just leaving this room until this Doctor Who episode decides to end. She's staying, Sherlock. I don't want to hear one word about it," John then promptly stormed into the flat not unlike a teenage girl would in the given situation. Scarlett watched him until he was gone, smirking. She turned to Sherlock,  
"I'd say it's you and John who are the married couple. But that's besides the point. What were you doing in the rain? Do you work with the police?"  
"No, they work with me. Now shut up. Your presence is tedious."  
"I'm giving you a migraine, then?" her smirk widened into a smile.  
"Yes," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, "so do shut up." He took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, ever so impatient. Scarlett sighed. Living with these two eccentric men, however briefly, would certainly be a memorable experience.  
"Males," she muttered, completely amused as she calmly walked the flight of seventeen stairs to her temporary place of residence. "221B Baker Street. Should be easy enough to remember," Scarlett told herself as she walked into the maelstrom of a living room. She noticed Sherlock was sitting in an armchair which she thought rather fit his outward personality. How quaint. He had his hands pressed together, clasped under his chin as though praying. His eyes were even closed. However, she found it obvious that he wasn't praying: he was thinking. Curious, she sank into the opposite armchair, grabbing the rather patriotic pillow lying on top of it and resting her elbows against it, fingers intertwined and pressed against her lips. Scarlett stared at the man oblivious to her attention with the gold-flecked emeralds which were her eyes. Sherlock Holmes was a unique male. This much was a certainty.


End file.
